“I’ll cut your hair,” she said impulsively one evening. “You’re getting shaggy, and far too blond with all this sun.”
We were vacationing in the islands, trusting the fresh sea winds to bring life to stale hopes. We sat half-naked on limestone dust as soft as flour, and sifted it through our fingers. We’d made love as many times as there were shells strewn on the sand. It had brought back our glory days, when I was strong and confident, she sleek and clever. In our quiet cove under coconut palms, with the sly serenade of tropical wavelets tickling our feet, the heat fanned no flames, only set them flickering and uncertain, my small supply of virility too quickly exhausted, too slowly replenished. After only two days, happy banter ebbed with the sea, swirling away with manta rays and parrot fish to leave only silence and doubt and desperate measures.

“Some Sun and Delilah”

About the story: Sometimes strength isn’t where you think it is.